ing, watching Philip all the while. "Driven out?" he asked at last, with a sharp look.
"Yes," said Philip quietly. "Driven out." He knew suddenly that McTavish understood. He remembered all at once what he had said, "I knew your Ma before you were born. You can't tell me anything about her."
"Here," suddenly the undertaker was pouring whisky. "Here, drink this. I'll get you a coat."
He disappeared into that portion of the establishment where the dead were kept, and returned in a moment bearing a coat and hat. The curious, pungent odor of the place clung to him.
"Here," he said. "It's all I've got. You couldn't wear my clothes. You'd be drowned in them." He laid the coat and hat on a chair by the stove. "These ought to about fit you. They belonged to Jim Baxter, who got bumped off at the grade-crossing while comin' home drunk last week. His wife has never come for 'em. I guess he won't need a coat where he is now." He sat down and took Philip's wrist, feeling the flow of blood. "Feel better now? Your heart seems all right."
"I've always been strong as an ox."
"It ain't the same after you've had a fever."
They sat in silence for a moment and then McTavish asked, "You don't mind wearin' a dead man's clothes?"
"No," said Philip. "No." Anything was better than going back to the slate-colored house.
"When you're in my business, you get over squeamish feelings like that. Dead men and live ones are all the same, except you know the dead ones are mebbe missing a lot of fun."
"No . . . I don't mind, Mr. McTavish." Philip
